Mr. Shinn Takes me to an Obama Rally

My client Mr. Shinn calls me on my cell, rudely interrupting my nap time on a St. Croix beach. He has the voice of someone left on the continent, someone desperately in need of a vacaycay. Stressed out. Edgy. Caffeinated.

“Yo, Nat, What are you doing Saturday morning?”

“Oh Mr. Shinn, I don’t know. Probably getting the sleep I have not been able to find on this island.”

“No you are not. I am taking you to an Obama rally.”

“For real?” I reply slightly incredulous. I knew the senator was scheduled to speak in Dallas on Thursday while I was still on the island (our secretaries must have not communicated efficiently in regard to our respective schedules), but I had no idea about Saturday’s speaking engagement.

I am a politics nut. I work from home and listens to MSNBC all day long. Right, left, center, center right, center left, I’m all ears. With certain limits though. I do not indulge in commentators who advocate the use of little loofah things in the shower nor do I pay any attention to commentators who must subject to random drug testing. An Obama rally? I was stoked (the expression is a remnant of too much X Games watching.)

Saturday morning, Mr. Shinn picks me up at Starbucks and drives me downtown to City Hall. I look like Tintin the reporter. I’m equipped. Recorder? Check. Camera? Check. Chicken lens? Check. Uber Sport lens? Check.

Approaching the area, I am surprised at the lack of traffic, the lack of security, the abundance of parking spots, and a subdued crowd of ten lost souls on the plaza.

I landed at 2 am that same morning, have had three hours of sleep tops, and it does not look as if Mr. Obama and I are going to have a conversation over tea and crumpets any time soon. Mr. Shinn looks rather sheepish. He goes to investigate.

THERE IS AN OBAMA RALLY! Except… Sans Monsieur Obama. The speech he gave Thursday night will now be replayed on loudspeakers in-its-entirety. Wooptifriggindoo!

I look at Mr. Shinn. I look at the beautiful Henry Moore sculptures on the plaza. The man owes me. I point a vengeful finger:

“Mr. Shinn, go love Henry!”

Mr. Shinn took me to an Obama rally and all I got was this lousy photograph.

Mobbed by Children

We all have moments in time we dream we could relive differently. Experimenting with digital photographic equipment in Brazil pretty much rates at the top of my own list.

Mind you, I’m all about experimenting in Brazil. If there is one place on earth where you can let loose, that’s the one, hands down. It embraces you and incessantly whispers to your ear its maddening mantra: “Whatever feels good, just do it.”

I arrived in Rio with a brand new digital camera. We are talking stone age of the digital era: 2.1 megapixels. Floppy discs. You read correctly. Floppy discs. 4 photographs a disc. My suitcase: half bikinis, half floppies.

After a week spent samba dancing at night (Pagode woohoo!) and sleeping on the beach during the day, I decided to enjoy a day of relaxation on ilha Grande, a small island off the coast.

There was a village, a white church, an old jail, but I never made it that far. I disembarked on a beach full of chickens.

The houses appeared run-down but they were full of colors.

The fishermen’s boats were pulled in front of their habitations. I walked up and down the beach taking it all in and discovered a small elementary school, tucked away in foliage. The children were playing in the courtyard. Temptation mounting, I armed the camera with a brand new floppy, and clicked. Then I got mobbed.

I found myself surrounded by a bunch of kids asking questions AND demanding answers. Need I mention my Portuguese at the time was not exactly up to snuff? I tried to tame the riot by showing them the image on the LCD screen. They had never seen such magic. They were wowed. In awe. I suddenly stood in the middle of 40 grabbing hands reaching for the camera. Not exactly the kind of development I had in mind.

A teacher finally intervened. His English seemed a bit tentative, but to me, he was a knight in shining armor (like most Brazilian men, I should add.) He gave his approval for more photographs and rounded up the troops.

At first, the children’s discomfort was almost palpable.

Another teacher emerged, and the kids started to get a little nuts.

I was not about to go anywhere. They shared their modest lunch with me: nut bread and water.

They all wanted their portraits taken. As soon as I clicked, they would run to me and demand to see themselves on the screen. Then we had to go through five minutes of comments I could not even begin to comprehend and they would go back to posing, waiting impatiently for the click and fighting for the spotlight.

They brought me to the pier.

They would not let me go so I began to shoot individual portraits and small groups.

This little girl was gorgeous and a personality and a half. She just grabbed little Mattheus and made him pose kissing her.

She must have been no more then 10 year old. I wonder what she looks like today.

I have never desired children. Not even for a minute… except for that kid. Mattheus with the crazy ears. Hilarious little guy.

M and Y. Best Friends. Camera hoggers.

Four hours into my visit, these little girls were certainly not more educated (apparently lessons are purely optional when the photographer shows up), but they got to experience with posing.

It came naturally to them. No self-consciousness. Complete trust.

This was no highfalutin island with modern amenities. These kids came from very modest conditions and were probably not promised shiny futures. Some, like this little one, seemed to bear the weight of the world on their skinny shoulders.

I had a very good time in Brazil. The discovery of a new culture. Lots of partying. But if I had one single moment I could go back to, it would be this day spent with twenty children I could not understand. I later sent about 200 prints to one of the teachers. I never heard back from her. I hope she received the pictures and gave them to the kids.

There is nothing I can do with these photographs but post them online. In prints larger than 4″ x 6″, the pixelation is horrendous. Bringing the analog would have been the correct decision… on the other hand, the kids would not have been able to check out their photographs right away, and we all would have missed out on tons of good times and laughters. One of the best days of my life.

Bed Head Colleen

Strolling in Curtis Park, I saw a little girl with crazy hair.

Look: it’s bed head Colleen!

Hair made of straw, eyes made of sky

A dimpled smile

Daddy will need weapons

Beauty Fades – Ugly Lasts Forever

Long before Amelie’s traveling gnome, and long before Phoebe Buffay’s Smelly Cat, there was… an object of rare distinction which kept a handful of Dallasites entertained all throughout the nineties.

Once upon a time I fulfilled the duties of Petit Big Cheese at an animal hospital. I got to be the Cheese which suited my Napoleonic complex to a T, and I got to enforce Big Big Cheese’s unpopular policies which felt singularly against nature. Neither here, nor there. My management philosophy incorporated a good deal of prank components. I believed that keeping the troops silly entertained once in a while fostered camaraderie and generated a better climate in the work place.

Mr. A, a patron of the practice, seemed to all like a man of irreproachable taste. Always dressed impeccably and exuding sophistication, he simply exemplified class. Sadly, his beloved kitty succumbed to cancer despite our best efforts.

A week after the cat’s tragic demise, Mr. A. showed up at the practice bearing a gift for the Big Big Cheese. She unwrapped the beautiful silk paper, opened the box, delicately removed the soft tissue papers and came face to face with this:

Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat

Big Big Cheese paused. Was Mr. A. playing a trick on her or was he actually serious? She opted for erring on the side of caution and thanked him profusely for his beautiful present. He told her that the cat’s green glass eyes reminded him of those of his belated cat. Unthinkable acts originate from unbearable grief.

Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat lived at the hospital for years. We re-gifted it amongst ourselves at each birthday. By the time another celebration came about, we would have completely forgotten about the ugly beast and were always surprised when we opened the box.

Nothing could instantly relax the atmosphere of a stressful day as well as Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat.

A nurse who had a bad day would monitor the boarding webcam and suddenly the yellow cat would appear out of nowhere.

Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat would get x-rayed and the film would be left on the viewing box of an exam room just before a doctor stepped in with a client.

We would find him in the cage of the dog that barked incessantly and the unnerving situation would be instantly diffused.

He would help with difficult feline pre-anesthesia procedures.

Our electrician contractor even caught him once fornicating with Piglet in the wiring closet.

After 9/11, Ugly Yellow Cat morphed into an extremely patriotic creature and began to exhibit disturbing anti-Old Europe sentiments.

I decided to take it home to Belgium for Christmas. I figured it would be interesting to see how many people I could convince to pose with the ugliest yellow plastic cat that ever existed. At the airport, he posed with the shoe shiner.

He also posed with the National Guard which was a bit of a tour de force, don’t you think?

Once in the plane, he had to meet the captain. I don’t think that right after 9/11, Ugly Yellow Plastic Cats were supposed to visit the cockpit, so I’ve somewhat concealed the identity of the aviator in the photograph.

Brussels unfortunately did not do much for Yellow Ugly Plastic Cat. The snow and gloomy gray skies bore on his soul like a ton of bricks.

We emigrated to the Island of Porquerolles in the south of France, and in the sun Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat thrived.

We went to the Vigiles, and he posed one last time with the Mediterranean sea as backdrop, before heading to Nice to catch our plane back to Freedom land.

All good things must come to an end. Back at the hospital, Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat became a bit of a nuisance. Big Big Cheese thought we spent way too much time fooling around with it. The straw that broke the Cheese’s rind happened a day where stress was at its peak, and, out of sheer hysteria, we dangled the poor Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat in front of Big Big Cheese’s surveillance monitor.

Re-enactment

The statuette was retired to a drawer. Years later, when I left the practice, I could not help but catnap Ugly Yellow Plastic Cat. I get attached to uglicious objects. Today, he happily resides on my mantel with white glow-in-the-dark gnome. It is a lovely conversation piece.

While my last wishes do not include internment with the plastic monstrosity, Ugly Plastic Yellow Cat remains a prized possession. A symbol of a decade of fun in a tensed work environment. There were many other pranks along the years including a male stripper I hired to pose as a deranged new client of very very conservative Big Big Cheese. I don’t think he would have fitted on my mantel quite as nicely though.

Dallas, the New Paris

Dallas, Texas. They say everything here is bigger but I’m not convinced. I keep on checking for my growth spurt, but I remain diminutive.

Living here is ok… as long as you make extensive use of the international airport, but my dog Virus will draw his final breath before I pack another suitcase. I owe him for 15 years of devoted service and all the dead presents, so I stay put. But I ITCH!!!

The other day a sudden awareness struck me. I realized that, to many, Dallas would be considered different and exotic. Obviously not if you live around these parts, but what about if you lived in Rome or London? I bet you English folks still think Southfork Ranch lies right smack in the middle of town (which it totally does not! Ha!)

Dallas is my new Paris. Minus the croissants and the old buildings and art that no one bothered to replace over there because, you know, they are a bunch of socialists after all…

Bye bye Art!

Driving south on 35, after crossing the Trinity River, you arrive in a neighborhood called Oak Cliff. It knows no official bounds; anything south of the river is pretty much considered Oak Cliff. Many celebrities either lived there or attended its schools: Sergeant Garcia from Zorro certainly did, and so did Batgirl.

Then, there were some for whom Oak Cliff did not bring a lot of luck. It is said that Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow met there in 1930 and we all know what happened to them. Then, there is also Dennis Rodman. When he attended South Oak Cliff High School, he failed to make the football team. Freshman year, he quit basketball in the midst of the season for not having been given enough playing time. Truth be told, he was only 5 ft 6 at the time. We all know the rest of the story. He left Oak Cliff to attend college, grew to be 6 ft 7, dyed his hair funky crazy and dated Madonna. Sometimes a change of venue is all it takes.

Nowadays Oak Cliff has bits of parts for the well-off, and plenty of parts for the not so well-off and the not so white. Most places, it’s not so safe either. I decide to walk along the route of the former steam railroad on Jefferson Boulevard.

First impression? A lot of Spanish!

Second impression? If it’s not your first language, buy a dictionary. You just know that this little fellow will misspell the word “cigar” for the remainder of his life. In all fairness, 80 cents for a supreme cigar seems like a bargain to me.

This Tejano sells Cds on the street. His friend approaches me as I am walking along the Boulevard and asks me what I am doing. I never thought I looked anything like a threat, but indigenes plain don’t like outsiders in this part of town… that is until we start talking on the sidewalk and he tells me all about his former gang activities and the murders he witnessed. Pause. “But, er, we’re friends now, right?” He reassures me and tells me he is going to watch over me. Five minutes in the hood and I’ve got myself a spankin’ new guardian angel! Or a guardian evil…

I continue my walk and cross paths with this couple of lovebirds who maintain their very own red shopping cart.

This is Brenda. Brenda scares me. As I look through the window of the laundromat, she briskly opens the door and, with a bit of what could be easily described as a disapproving tone, questions my presence on the premise. She is smaller than I am but she could take me. With a finger. I stutter something about Sergeant Garcia and Dennis Rodman and my blog and Paris and she appears overwhelmed by a sense of great pity. Silly little blond is going to have a hard time going through life with that pea-size brain! She requests a photograph. We’re buds.

Ah kids! The little girl sits on the table, patiently waiting, and her smile is beaming. After taking Brenda’s portrait, I really need a more reassuring subject. I could definitely take her.

I catch this family in front of the bus depot. The boy in the yellow tee-shirt hams it up. The boy in the orange shirt just wants to die of embarrassment. A camera generally has this effect on teenagers, especially when the whole family is involved.

This is the Supermercado. In front, another seller of CDs. I try to convince him to have his portrait taken but when he learns I have already photographed the competition, he shuts down like a clam. His CD selection is not as good anyway.

At this point, I’m starting to feel as if I had traveled to Mexico. The colors, the people, the language: there is absolutely nothing Anglo about this place besides the street names. Add a beach and I’m moving there.

A muy cool Tejano plays pool. The rules are different. Instead of starting the game with all the balls in a triangle, he aligns them on both sides of the table.

At first, this young Tejano appears very reluctant and even a little stern. He “warmed up” eventually although you really can’t tell by looking at this photograph. I want boots like that too.

The cohort of Stern Tejano, all wife-beatered and pumaed. Tejano sell-out!

Diana. In the arms of her mami. Hating me. For delaying her supper. I look like that too when I’m hungry.

At the bus depot, this Mexican man provides drinks and food to the waiting passengers. He is incredibly sweet.

In front of the bus depot, two men in intense conversation. We mean serious business.

As I make my way back, this little thing catches my eyes. She is mesmerized by me. I steal her image. I generally always ask the parents, but I just could not resist the moment.

Waiting for a call? Waiting to make one? Does anyone still use public phones?

The hair salon. All this pinkness! You feel transported back to another era. If I managed a pink salon, I would ban bright yellow products.

I enter a check cashing joint and see this security guard. To obtain the permission to photograph him, I would have gone through extraordinary lengths, jumped through hoops, and sold my grand-mother. There is something incredibly touching about him beyond his droopy eyes and high-waisted pants: the man just exudes goodness and sense of duty.

You should always pay for your ticket. Ask Lee Harvey Oswald! If the dude had paid for his ticket at the Texas Theater, he might still be sipping cocktails on a beach somewhere in the Pacific. Sometimes small savings do not pay off in the end.

I walk on the now seemingly deserted boulevard. A big black dude in a big black car moves slowly along the sidewalk. He lowers the window on the passenger’s side and asks me to join him for a ride. He is holding some kind of baton that he rubs in upward and downward motions as he insists heavily. I kinda like my life and I really feel like I ought to go home right about that time. I see him park his car a little further down the street. Time to get the hell out of here!

Bye bye Oak Cliff!

Bring out your Belgian dead!

Running out of place to bury people is never a good situation. In 1866, a cholera epidemic swept through Brussels and swiftly killed more than 3,000. Well, that was a bit of a problem. Quickly, the Cemetery of the Dieweg got created to palliate overflowing morgues.

Belgians being obviously deficient in cemetery planning affairs, the new death venue got rapidly saturated. After 1945, inhumations grew rare. In 1958, it closed down. Slowly, nature took over.

The crosses became one with the trees.

Ground cover swallowed the stones.

Sporadic light piercing through forests of trees gave the graveyard an eerie feel.

The neighbourhood of Uccle where the cemetery is located is home to most of Brussels bourgeoisie. Some of the tombs lie adorned with impressive monuments to the glory of the great families. Some say we are all equal in death but, I’m sorry, some tombs are way better than others.

On one hand, gigantic statues, on the other, little Jesus with no legs. Equality? Come again!

Walking around, you wonder whether you are experiencing the ultimate romantic interlude,

Or whether when you reach the end of the “Sematary”, you’ll stumble upon the “deadfall.”

While absolutely unable to deal with death on any levels, I dig cemeteries. The Dieweg graveyard falling into the category of crazy weirdness, it rates second on my top ten list. It is no wonder that Herge, Tintin’s creator, obtained a special derogation to be interred in the closed down venue.

It is only closed to the dead people, the living are most welcome to visit.

Hibiscusade with that Goat Water?

A tryst with John Deere is what I expected when asked to cover the St. Croix 37th Agricultural and Food Fair – AGRIFEST – (or AgFest if you’re cool.) Feeling conflicted between the promise of sandy beaches with little parasols in tropical cocktails and the thought of having to find tractors sexy and inspiring, I hesitated about, oh, 10 seconds then ordered a new skimpy bikini.

A week later, I fly to the Virgin Islands, armed with hours of scientific research on agricultural implements and their attachments. John Deere and I are going to have a total love fest.

The St. Croix AgFest is a huge deal in the U.S. Virgin Islands. As soon as I land, I am whisked away to the opening reception at the Governor’s Mansion.

Talking about governors, here he is: the seventh Governor of the U.S. Virgin Islands, Governor John deJongh. A muy sympatico laid back governor if you ask me.

After a few glasses of punch, I feel ready for the big day ahead of me.

The next morning, approaching the Fair venue, I realize that studying the engagement of the locking differential through the use of split breaks in a four-wheel drive tractor may have been a tad irrelevant, if not completely nerdy. The sun is shining on columns of colorfully clad families walking cheerfully towards the Fair grounds and this is starting to feel a lot like… a party! This will be work for the camera rather than the pen, the senses rather then the brain (pretty good news considering the gray cells seem to have migrated to another country.)

Inspired by the last Top Chef season, I decide to emulate Anthony Bourdain. Whatever sounds the weirdest, that’s what I’m eating. I end up with Goat Water (a creamy stew made of goat.) In all honesty, I think the goat water is an acquired taste, and not to sound unworldly but a Hamburger from McDonald’s begins to look real good after a few bites of the goat (plus you receive a complimentary toy with your Happy Meal and you get nada with the goat.)

All the women serving food wear traditional garb. I could use a headdress such as this one. I think it would make me look much taller.

Rastafarians everywhere! Some make this adorable little heart sign when you photograph them. I can only assume this is the Rasta way of saying “peace out mon.” Perhaps I’m completely mistaken and the sign means “you look like a weird little dudette” but hopefully not.

Some Rastas look very friendly,

some very wise.

Some appear just a tad less approachable (you’ll notice no trace of little “I heart you” sign going on there, just Rasta office weaponry.)

Some non-Rastafarians look downright as if they had emerged from the Dallas hood, bling and all… You just catch yourself scrutinizing the parking lot for the pimped car on hydraulics.

No worries. We are very well protected by the island popo who incidentally has a lot of problem not cracking up while posing for the photograph.

The St. Croix agents are a force to be reckoned with. They are fierce. They look mean. Do not mess with them.

At the Agfest, you can get a temporary tattoo which is cool for a woman but not so cool for a mon, I told Matthew, another travel writer, who seemed quite tempted by the experience.

Having heard about Matthew’s longing for a girly girl tattoo, a Moko Jumbie attempts to scare the evil spirits away from him.

The whole fair grounds is strewn with booths selling clothes, jewelry, artifacts, fabrics, music, and local products from the three islands.

Fresh local organic produce. As a rule, I never eat anything green unless it’s wasabi but sampling the products of the Virgin Island Sustainable Farm Institute, I was reminded of how fruits and vegetables are supposed to taste. Yummy for my tummy! I’d eat veggies if I lived on St. Croix. Until then, I’ll stick with sushi and Cocoa Puffs.

Music instruments and pots.

A photo booth!

At the end of the day, you could observe exhausted children sleeping in their mom’s arms… I, too, could have used a little nap by that time but then I would have missed…

Mister Suave. Perched on his bike, the dude was flirting with every women passing by. Sampling tomatoes? It’s all good but, eh, you have to keep your priorities straight, you know.

As I leave the Fair Grounds, the guy manning the entrance asks to have his portrait taken. He seems really cool. I have never ever seen such blown pupils in my life!

If you want a display of shiny modern agricultural machines, the Agricultural and Food Fair may not be for you. The AgFest is a cultural jewel and offers a perfect insight in the colorful Crucian lifestyle to tourists.

I would only perhaps recommend a Pious Nun over the goat water.

Para mi primo exiliado en Chile

My cousin Marc has always been a source of admiration for me, not because of his incredible intellect, not because of his formidable talent as a photographer, but because, in his twenties, he had the courage to look outside the box and he chose an unusual life path.

A law degree and two subsequent specializations, one from a Dutch university and one from a British university, had virtually guaranteed him a highly successful career in the legal spheres, but to my recollection, he never used any of his degrees after university.

In the 60s, my sister Odile, cousins Barbara, Marc and Gerard

After returning from Great-Britain, Marc embarked on a six-month trip to China (in the early eighties when it was still untouched by Western influence), then flew to Chile. He never looked back. He lived for photography. Abstract, crazy beautiful photography.

In Santiago, he rented a room with a single window and, for years, he photographed objects and human shapes in this square of light. Not a trace of luxury. Not even a fridge. Only art.

Gerard, Marc and Barbara.

Now, in all honesty, had I been made to wear lederhosen in my childhood, I may have exiled myself to Chile as well. Rather sooner than later. After copious therapy.

Marc makes rare sporadic appearances in Belgium. The last time I saw him was years ago. Having recently reconnected with his brother Gerard (the barbecue warrior), I wish I had the opportunity to hang out with Marc too.

Last May, we threw a surprise party for my mom’s 75th birthday, and I, of course, documented the event and designed an album for her. So Marc, this one is for you. That’s what we look like now (I understand you may have felt the need to put an ocean between your family and yourself, but, see, the past always catches up with you…)

That’s the cover. It’s my mom riding the dinosaur. She has a good sense of humor. I think. I hope. She has not seen the album yet. I might get disowned.

My brother, Chris with an h, and sister, Odile with none, whisked my mother away to the movies and I hid in the rhododendrons (with the bees) until the coast was clear. I let the caterer in and the guests began to arrive.

My mom is blind as a bat (like me.) It took her a while to realize who the 25 strange people in the driveway were.

My mom had no idea I was in Belgium! When she saw me among family and friends, she thought I was a person who resembled me a lot!

My sister Odile (the Quintessential Cat Lady) and my aunt Nanou. Not fighting. Yet. I cannot begin to tell you how long it took me to figure out how to seat people, a matter of vital importance in my highly volatile family.

Gerard and Marcel, a family friend since the fifties. These two put together have a caustic sense of humor which reminds me of the barbs exchanged during our bi-weekly family lunches back in the seventies and eighties.

Odile’s son, Nicolas, and his girlfriend. My nephew (nefiou) is quite the entertainer.

Parenthesis: nefiou after having worked in the yard. As stated, quite the entertainer… I digress. Back to the party:

Feisty Marie-Helene, one of my mom’s best friend. Sharp as a tack.

The two compadres.

The catering company, Art’aste, did a great job.

Gerard, my cousin Valerie (who used to dismember her Barbie dolls) and Antoine (nefiou Sr.)

Gerard’s wife Nancy and Olivier, the husband of the Dismemberor. Sill in one piece. A miracle.

My crazy photographer brother (and his new Nikon D3) and the Dismemberor eying the camera suspiciously.

Marcel’s wife, Natha, having a “come to Jesus” with Nanou (I had seated them at different tables for dinner but all bets were off after dessert) – in the corner, one of my mom’s sculptures. I love her art. I liked the way she paints but I LOVE the way she sculpts. Every time I’m in Brussels, I steal all her sculptures and put them in my room. They are all mine.

Nancy, the Dismemberor, Gerard and another of my mom’s sculptures. Mine.

Between my brother and me, guests got photographed under every imaginable angle.

My brother sucks but I love to photograph him

The two waiters. My brother and I thought they were a pretty hilarious pair so at the end of the evening we kidnap them to the photo studio and played a little. They got in trouble with the caterer for disappearing on him. Chris and I felt like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

The back cover. The album is on its way to Belgium. 30 pages of memories. Happy memories I hope. They’d better be happy considering the sweat, the blood, the ANGST it took to organize the whole affair! I’m just extremely relieved everyone survived and no one got sued.

Hey Matt You Slacker! Gotcha!

Leave an innocent comment on my blog and next thing you know… You are the story. So here is to you, Matt, just because… Ever since I added you to my blogroll, you haven’t produced a single post. You let me down. I don’t like to be let down.

Hotel Halloween

The Shining

Family portrait with Rosemary’s baby

Hannimatt Lecter Doll

Matt the Dragon Slayer, I think

Now Matt, I understand you would like to dedicate your time and grey matter to higher intellect endeavors, but come on, nothing could ever be as much fun as blogging! Whom will you taunt with your usual obnoxiousness?

One last one… For the road.

Now THESE look like tracksuits!

Sorry Allison! Before enrolling your help, I should have stipulated you were fair game too.

Paris, Une Autre Nuit

Some folks are day people, some are night people, some, like the Spaniards, seem to never sleep. I belong to the first category: up at dawn with the beautiful morning light, hooking up the caffeine IV drip.

Unlike me, my friend Raphaelle embodies and embraces the whole concept of night person, which is why before meeting for dinner in Paris, I had “subtly” specified I needed to make it an early night.

Raphaelle whom you might remember from my previous post “Paris, une Nuit” lives across from the abominable Pot on Plaza Pompidou. Walking in her neighborhood, you would think Paris is a village. Unavoidably, you run into people she knows. I even run into people I have met before. How silly is THAT?

These men work at Le Soir, the nightclub where a woman bit me. After the usual ritual of “Salut, mwoa, mwoa, Tu vas bien? Ouais et toi, tu vas bien? Ouais”, we leave the guys and head to the restaurant. I happily snap away. As usual. I am an obsessive shooter. I’m probably a huge pain to be around.

Put this woman on the streets of Dallas and I shriek in horror: “OMG, a Goth! From which eighties time warp did she crawl?” In Paris, I regard this fine Beaubourg creature as creative and stylish. Une demoiselle tres chic! Surroundings count. That’s vachement silly.

Rapha and I enjoy a fabulous Italian dinner. Her neighbor JR (who is called JR because his real name is Jean-Raphael, and two Raphael(le) are confusing in the same building) was supposed to join us, BUT (and that’s when I realize I have completely lost control of my EARLY evening) he will actually meet up with us later for a drink. As you can well imagine, it all goes downhill from there.

Rapha takes me rue Quincampois to “Le Troisieme Lieu, La Cantine des Ginettes Armees”, literally The Mess Hall of the Armed Chicks.” Despite the rather aggressive appellation, the bar/restaurant/nightclub turns out to be a hoot and a half and no girl tries to bite me – which is a refreshing change. JR joins us but no sign of Catherine, his girlfriend, who is eating pasta “but will arrive shortly.” It is 12:45 am.

Since my friends are smokers – and the ban on cigarettes in Parisian restaurants just took effect to their utmost chagrin and outrage – we end up spending more time on the sidewalk than in the club. The guy pictured above flanked by Rapha and her pal was literally kidnapped from the street and made to pose with them… which he happily obliged, even expressing a little too much pleasure for comfort. We had to shoo him away!

Two minutes later, same place, a man and his dog. The cigarette ban is probably going to lead to a whole lot of outdoor socialization. The movement would be called Bonding by Bitching.

It’s 1:30 am. Miss Catherine has finally finished her noodles. She is seen here in her best imitation of a Parisian hooker and misses the mark completely, if you ask me.

Bicycle Man! Out of nowhere, this hooded fellow appears and starts demonstrating his daring cycling dexterity. He later hints casually that he may very well have stolen the Velib bike from the City of Paris. While not advocating theft in the least, I feel that the machine could not have ended up in the hands of a more bicycle-loving felon.

It’s LATE. I absolutely must go back to the hotel but somehow I am dragged to Rapha’s apartment for a last night cap.

At this point of the night, the degree of intellect shown by any of us in conversation is close to nil. While we cruise the net looking for our lost childhood, Rapha comes out with the startling revelation that she never goes to the hair salon and proceed to demonstrate how she cuts a piece of her hair every morning with the help of office scissors.

The method seems inflation-proof. I would have never known.

Delirium Tremens no doubt. JR is fascinated by the curly black lock. Just when you thought we couldn’t possibly attain another level of silliness…

We manage! I’m not sure whether it looks more like a mustache or hair growing out of his nose. JR is a goofy man.

It is 3:30 am when Rapha decides to treat us to a defile of the latest Paul Smith fashion.

Oh but wait, you have to see it in color to get the full effect.

It’s 4 am. My early evening turned out to be a lovely very late night kind of soiree. Sometimes, you just cannot win.

Au Revoir!

Hanging out with crazy French people makes me feel incredibly normal.